


Keep it in Your Sights Now

by holograms



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'll take you there," Nixon says. If he makes the plan with Dick, he’ll make sure it happens.  It’s something to look forward to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep it in Your Sights Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancinguniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/gifts).



> I love Nixon and Winters with all my heart, and I was so happy to write this because you share that same love. Happy Yuletide, recipient! ♥
> 
> Title from "Sights" by London Grammar.

“We’ll go to Chicago,” Nixon says. “I’ll take you there."

On the eve of jumping into battle, it seems ridiculous to be promising something that’s that big of a commitment, and even more ridiculous to promise it to someone who in normal circumstances he would have never met. It’s risky.  There’s a lot he could lose — there’s the ever-present thought that he could lose him before he’s ever really had him.

But these are not normal circumstances, and if Lewis Nixon is anything, he’s a risk taker.

Not that it seems like a risk with Richard Winters, though.  Two years in and every step of the way, Dick has been there — a constant in Nixon’s life (there was one catch of a half-suppressed smirk and Nixon smiled back, and the rest is history).  He’s a sure thing.

Maybe that’s why Nixon says it — if he makes the plan with Dick, he’ll make sure it happens.  It’s something to look forward to.

He expects Dick to tether his lofty dream to the ground, call him foolhardy, talk sense into him.

But Dick doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he keeps his vision skyward and says, “Yeah…we’ll see.”

Nixon doesn’t let him know that he sees him sneak a glance at him when he thought he wasn’t looking.

 _Yes,_  Nixon thinks.   _We’ll see._

 

 

 

Nixon is a patient man,  _can_ be a patient man, despite what others say about him. He can wait, and that’s what he’ll do. Damn Winters and his vigil at the Command Post.  Nixon will wait all day long for him to visit him.  He’ll wait until the end of the war if he has to, and he won’t come out of this foxhole the entire time, just wait and see.

Three hours later, Nixon crawls out of his foxhole and trudges over to CP.

As expected, he finds Dick bent over a table, shuffling papers.  It’s a miracle he hasn’t frozen solid to the table.  But really, it will take a lot more than a nasty Belgium winter to restrain Dick to a desk — the higher ups have tried, God knows, and any moment Nixon expects Dick to make a break for the open field where he belongs.

Nixon stands in the flap of the shelter and clears his throat.

Like a good officer, Dick quickly snaps his attention to the source of the noise with rapid-fast reflex.  It makes Nixon think of Pavlov and his dogs — a new experiment: men conditioned to jump at anything — and he’d almost laugh about it if didn’t make him angry, too.

When Dick sees that it’s Nixon, his blue-eyed gaze softens, and sighs ( _with relief, or annoyance?_  Nixon wonders).

“Hey,” Nixon says.  He tries to smile but his teeth are chattering too much.

Dick places the papers he had been holding onto the table, and then crosses his arms in front of him, shoving his hands under his armpits.  “Did your hibernation end early?”

Nixon lets out a single, “Ha,” and steps next to him under the shelter.  He shakes fresh snow off his shoulders, some of it falling on Dick in a quiet sort of rebellion. Dick huffs and gives an accusatory glare at the dusting of snow that had fallen on him.  Nixon counts it as a victory.

“Well,” Dick says a few moments later, looking back to Nixon.  “What brings you here? Starved for attention?”

Dick says it like Nixon is a nuisance, but Nixon knows that it’s all for show.  He knows that no matter how busy Dick is, he always has time for him.

“Yes,” Nixon says, because he’s supposed to play along, that’s how it goes with them.  “I’m feeling rather unloved by a certain redheaded Captain. If it keeps up, I might go over to the krauts. Seems like they want me — they keep shooting over here to get my attention.”

Dick scoffs.  “Oh boy, I have competition.”

Nixon nods.  “You better step up your game,” he says, resting his hips against the table and leaning in toward Dick while giving him most convincing smile. “So, treat me well?”

Dick rolls his eyes, and Nixon feels such a sudden burst of affection for him that he has to touch him, so he reaches forward to clasp his shoulder.  He frowns, though, when he feels Dick shivering.

“Jesus Christ, Dick!  You’re freezing!”

“And you aren’t?”  Dick’s question bites almost as harshly as the wind.

Nixon runs a hand through his own hair, his other hand still gripping Dick’s shoulder.  “Of course,” Nixon replies, because who in this hell known as Bastogne  _isn’t_  cold? — that’s like asking if a living man breathes. But with Dick, it’s  _different_ ; micro-jerks rack his body, his muscles revolting with involuntary tiny spasms in an attempt to warm himself.  But it’s a futile act — Dick has been sitting in the open air for hours with no fire or coverage of a foxhole, and it’s going to take a lot more than that to soothe the frigid chill inhabiting him.

“But I’m not the one about to turn into a penguin,” Nixon continues, taking advantage of the humor tinting his voice to mask his concern. He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he places his gloved hands on the sides of Dick’s biceps and starts rubbing his arms, from his shoulder down to his elbow, to warm him. It’s an unbidden act but he  _has_ to, has to take care of him — because if Dick won’t look after himself, he will.

“Nix.”  Dick says it as a warning, but he doesn’t outright tell him to stop.

So Nixon doesn’t.

“After all of this,” Nixon says, and the implication of what  _this_ means is left unsaid. “We’ll go somewhere warm. Where it never snows.”

Dick blinks, and Nixon swears he can feel him starting to go slack under his touch, just a bit.  “That’s a nice plan.”

“I’ll take you to Miami,” Nixon says. “There’s a fantastic Cuban restaurant there, and the beach is in walking distance.”

Dick makes a humming noise in approval.

“The weather there is so temperate, they have these beaches where you can run around nude.”  Nixon says it mostly so see how Dick reacts; he aims to make Dick blush. It only takes a few seconds for Nixon to be vindicated — Dick  _does_  blush and it’s  _glorious,_ a bright pink flush spreading on his cheeks to match his rosy-from-the-cold nose.

There’s a memory of what Dick’s freckles look like in the hot Georgia sun, but Nixon wonders how they’d look on a beach — how his untouched skin would look amidst the summer sun and the sand and the ocean, and where Nixon could take his time to be acquainted with every part of him, where there’s no war and nothing to do besides be Richard and Lewis.

He stores that thought away — away with other things too valuable to forget.

Dick tries to say something, but the cold becomes too much and he stammers over his words, “It’s a l-less civilized place t-than—”

“Hush,” Nixon says, and then he commits another senseless act: wrapping his arms around Dick, and pulling him to his chest.

He feels Dick tense against him.

“Nix,” Dick sternly says.  “Let me go.”

“I’m going to have to disobey that order, sir.”

Nixon feels Dick’s sigh against his neck. It’s warm.  It feels like a surrender.

“What if someone sees?” Dick finally asks, his words muffled against Nixon’s coat.

Nixon considers it for a moment.

“I think they’d say,” Nixon begins, choosing each word carefully, “that I should do whatever it takes to make sure the XO doesn’t freeze to death.”

“I’m  _fine,_ ” Dick says, although he says it in a way that dares to be challenged.

It’s a good thing Nixon is always ready for a challenge, especially when he arranges the challenge himself. “Bullshit.”

There’s a moment of struggling where Dick manages to pry himself out of Nixon’s grasp, and he gives a long, exasperated exhale that’s directed at Nixon.  Nixon lets him, he lets Dick detach himself and hold him at an arms width away from him.

“Nix,” Dick starts, “I appreciate it, but I—”

However, Nixon doesn’t hear rest of it, because something explodes overhead and their conversation is cut short.

 

 

 

It’s not quite six feet deep, but for a while, Nixon had been sure that his foxhole was going to be his final resting place. Thankfully, it isn’t — he wasn’t too keen on the idea of having dug his own grave.

Regardless, the ground seems to close up around him anyway, trapping him, asphyxiating him.  For a second, he thinks that maybe he’s drank too much and that he is mistaking reality for imagination and he really  _is_ being buried alive, because dirt is falling in his face and onto his shoulders. He panics, and scrambles at the floor and laughs — no wait, that’s not right, he isn’t laughing—

He blinks away the dirt from his eyes, and when his vision clears he sees Dick sliding into his foxhole and knocking dirt and snow inside as he enters.  That’s when he realizes that the light, airy laughter is coming from Dick, who is apparently ticked pink over Nixon’s alarm.  

Nixon relaxes against the wall with a slump, and takes his flask from its hiding place in his coat.  Another near death experience avoided (even if it was half-way imagined), and Nixon thinks it calls for another drink.

Dick isn’t laughing anymore.  Nixon misses it.

Dick takes his time to settle next to Nixon, aligning his legs next to his and getting comfortable as possible in the small space. He doesn’t say anything as Nixon takes a hearty swig — they all could use something to help deal with this horrible night — he just watches as Nixon tips his head back, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

The two sit in silence (as much silence as there can be, with shouts and cries and the spattering of gunfire in the distance), until Dick finds the words worthy of breaking it.

“I was making my rounds, and I thought I’d come give you some my undivided attention.”  He nudges Nixon’s shoulder.  “Wouldn’t want you to feel neglected.”

“I’m so very flattered, my dear Winters.”

When looking at Dick, Nixon can barely make out his features, but from the little bit of moonlight that’s streaming into the foxhole that isn’t blocked by splintered treetops, he can see enough of Dick’s face to know that he’s troubled.  It’s a tense, pensive look, and extremely rare.  Nixon supposes that he is allowed audience to it because Dick feels like he can let down his guard with him, if only for a small measure.

He adds it to his ongoing comprehensive encyclopedic knowledge of everything about Richard Winters.

There was a point where Nixon knew that he couldn’t live without Dick.  It wasn’t today that he came to this conclusion — it’s something that has been developing for a while (however, there were a few freighting minutes after tonight’s attacks that he didn’t know if Dick was alive or not, and that confirmed it beyond a doubt).

One thing he does not know, however, is if Dick feels the same way.

(a memory: an unsuccessful bullet, and there’s a metal pinging in his ears and a throbbing in his head, he sees Dick looking down at him and clutching his arm like a life line, and he shouts his name in a desperate way he never heard before)

“Lew.”  Dick’s voice is so quiet, that Nixon has to strain to hear him. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

There’s a pause, like Dick is annoyed that Nixon isn’t taking him seriously, but is amused nevertheless. “I’ve been thinking,” he says again, “that Miami is too far away.”

Another thing that Nixon doesn’t know: when he fell in love with his best friend.  Perhaps he always has been, from the start.

“Well, maybe we can settle for somewhere that’s not freezing.”  Nixon hesitates. “I’ll take you there.”

There’s a pause, and then Dick moves, closing the distance between them and presses his mouth to his.

It is everything that Nixon could have asked for; the kiss is slow and testing, an experimental inquiry for more. Dick mumbles something against Nixon’s mouth, and Nixon parts his lips and slides his tongue against Dick’s as an answer.

He tastes like diluted coffee.

Nixon is vaguely aware of the risk of getting caught like this, but it’s the last concern on his mind — at the moment, all he can concentrate on are the desperate whines that Dick is making in the back of his throat and sound of the rustling of their clothes and the feeling of his mouth on his.

They pull away but stay close, close enough so that they can feel the heat of the other’s breath but without them truly touching.

“Dick,” Nixon whispers.

Dick doesn’t say anything, he just clutches at Nixon’s coat and then Nixon is dragged under again.

 

 

 

Finally, they leave Bastogne. It’s a relief to see the last of that place and its hellish, snowy wasteland.

“Told you so,” Nixon says.

Dick tilts his head.  “What?”

“I told you that I’d take you somewhere not freezing.”

A moment, then, “You aren’t taking me,” Dick says. “The U.S. Army is taking me.”

“Well, I guess then I still have to make it up to you.”

“Guess so.”

(They do not talk about that night in the foxhole.)

 

 

 

Dick is furious.

Nixon is sure that the other men don’t realize it — they’re too surprised by Dick’s deceit of not doing another patrol. Nixon sees it on their faces: they had stood around after the debriefing, staring, like they can’t believe that  _our_  honest and pure Captain Winters could  _lie_ like that.

But Nixon understands him.  He is intelligence, after all — he has to know.

(And he’s made it his secret mission to know everything about him; it’s an ongoing process.)

In the dilapidated room that serves as an office, Nixon types up the phony report (“I’ll do it, it takes forever for you to type,” Nixon had said, but the truth is he wanted to do it for fun). Dick sits in the chair next to him, not really paying attention to what Nixon writes — perhaps he doesn’t want to be too involved in the scheme, he still retains  _some_ of his scruples — and he absent-mindedly manipulates his brand-spanking-new gold oak leaf pin with his ungloved fingers.  He seems fine, but when Nixon looks at him close enough, he sees it, he sees the glint in his eyes and the cross knit of his brows that disclose that he’s mad as hell.

Dick’s anger is a quiet kind. Subtle.  Bristling.  Not enough to be outright rude, but it’s justifiable — he’s never angry without good reason.  At times Nixon will tease Dick when he’s mad, and Dick will say  _I’m not mad_  when he clearly is; it’s a denial to one of his more simplistic emotions.

Nixon wants to ask,  _are you angry with me?_

Instead, he pulls the final paper of the report out the typewriter and puts it with the rest of the papers.  Then, he taps the edges of the papers on the desk so they line up neatly together, and nudges Dick’s shoulder with the report, saying, “Here’s my Pulitzer nomination.”

Dick mutters a thanks and takes the report from Nixon, but doesn’t really look at him when he says it.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Nixon asks.

“Hmm?”  Dick flits his eyes away from his far-off focus and to Nixon.  “I’m fine.”

There it is again.   _Fine._

But the thing is: Nixon is  _not_ fine.  Nothing really has been okay since the start of the war, but he’s managed well with his whiskey and wit and a good amount of luck and a redheaded friend.   But.  Now there’s a tension, a sense of something gone awry, and it only grows every day that they don’t address the facts they cannot ignore—

Fact: Dick kissed Nixon.

Fact: Nixon kissed him back.

Fact: Nixon can’t stop thinking about it, and he’s sure that Dick can’t, either.

—but it’s become this big, awful thing where the longer they wait, the more difficult it gets to broach the subject, and both of them are far too stubborn to be the one who makes the jump.

Nixon laughs at the phrasing — he’s the one who followed Dick to the Airborne to  _jump out of planes._

“Then you’re fine,” Nixon says, “if you say so.”

Dick’s chews the inside of his cheek. “I was thinking about later,” he says. “About the future.”

There’s something unsaid there. Or maybe Nixon wills something to be there.  The future,  _after_ the war, what then?  Dick may be the one who has his life together, but Nixon is the one who plans.

Nixon stalls at their green light to jump.

“I think moving off the line tomorrow will make things better,” Nixon says. 

Dick blinks, as if it weren’t the answer he was expecting. “I agree.”  A moment later, Dick adds, “Where are we going exactly?” 

“Not Chicago or Miami, I’ll tell you that.” Nixon feels the warmth of Dick’s smile in his chest, tucked around his sternum.  “Maybe Los Angeles, though.”

“I’ve never been.”

“Well, I’ll have to take you there, too,” Nixon says, and he says it without even thinking.  It comes natural, him wanting to be anywhere with him, even here in this dusty apartment in Haguenau that doesn’t smell quite right and has paint peeling off the walls and boards over a window from where it’s been busted.

Dick licks his lips.  The urge for Nixon to put his mouth on his is almost too much for him to bear.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Dick says.

Nixon fishes his flask out of his coat, unscrews the lid and tilts it towards Dick.

“I never would,” Nixon says.  “I’m a man of my word.”

 _Especially with you,_ he does not add.

 

 

 

Nixon’s anger is violent, like a hurricane. Unchecked, he thinks he could destroy himself — and maybe he should.  He’s at a battle with himself, and maybe that’s why he works at destroying himself in little pieces every day.

Maybe he should have died in an exploding plane over Germany.

Dick tries to calm him.  He tells Nixon reassuring things in that steady, even voice of his, but Nixon doesn’t consider them and he tosses the platitudes aside as he downs glass after glass of whiskey because he’s just so goddamn tired of everything and nothing Dick says can make this better.  A guy can only take so much.

Eventually, Dick gives up and heaves a sigh and rubs his face with his hands.

“You could’ve died, Nix,” he says.

When Nixon looks at him, he sees how exhausted and troubled Dick is.  Nixon hadn’t even noticed at first — he was too caught up in his own problems to see.

At least he’s with good company.

“Any of us can die any time,” Nixon says. “That’s war.  That’s  _life._ ”

“I know.”  Dick has a hard time looking at Nixon; his eyes keep flitting down to the ground. “But today you almost did, and I would have had to deal with that.  I have to handle losing men, but…Lew you’re not just anybody, and if I lost you I’d—”

He goes to say more, but Nixon cuts him off. A few swift strides across the room and Nixon is there, pressing Dick against the wall and grasping his shirt and kissing him fiercely.

Because damn it, if you don’t jump quickly enough, you might die.

Dick lightly nips at Nixon’s bottom lip, tugging at it as Nixon pulls away from him.  Nixon takes a moment to examine him, and he sees Dick’s blue eyes shining and his face so flushed that it makes his freckles stand out like stars in the sky.

“I’ve wanted to do that since—,” Nixon begins, and Dick ends it with, “Me too.”

The next part happens quickly: they hurriedly walk to their shared room, Dick leading and Nixon following behind him. Dick locks the door and draws the curtains shut while Nixon stands in the middle of the room, unsure of how to approach, and when Dick turns to him, he sees that he’s feeling the same — a perplexed expression has settled on his face, as he’s if anticipating what’s next.

“I thought that maybe you thought it was a mistake. Us,” Nixon finds himself saying, and Dick lets out an amused snort, as if he can’t quite believe what Nixon is saying.

As an answer to his worry, Dick places his hands on the sides of Nixon’s face and kisses him again.  It’s long and deep and sensual; they’re taking their time with this one, as the one downstairs was rushed and dangerous and urgent. Nixon gives him little doses of whiskey with his tongue, and he’s left gasping when Dick slides his hands into his hair and twists his fingers around dark locks and lightly tugs.

“Frisky,” Nixon murmurs.  “Do you kiss the girls back at home like that?”

Dick grows in reply, and presses their bodies closer together.  Nixon leans into him, wrapping his arms around his middle, and when their hips meet against each other he can feel Dick’s hardness rubbing against his own.

With the knowledge that they’re both as worked up as much as the other, they stumble towards the bed (Dick’s, as Nixon’s has various items stern over it).  Nixon tries to remain sturdy but he’s drunk on kissing and whiskey so he ends up toppling backwards onto the bed with flop.  He lets out a started yelp when he falls and Dick laughs as he falls forward with him. Dick keeps laughing, and he buries his face into the side of Nixon’s neck to stifle it, and Nixon decides that Dick’s smile on his skin is the best feeling in the entire world.

There’s good competition for it a few seconds later, though, when Dick rocks his hips against Nixon’s.

He wants— _needs_ more, so Nixon scoots back so he’s fully on the bed, rumpling up the blankets and ruining Dick’s neatly made bed as he goes.  Dick moves with him and stays on top of him, but he shifts his legs so he’s straddling Nixon’s hips with his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Nixon, and he raises his upper body so he’s leaning over Nixon.

Nixon bucks against Dick.  “Please,” he begs.

Dick doesn’t need much convincing; he rolls his hips against Nixon’s, his straining erection rutting against Nixon’s as he moves. The friction created is absolutely wonderful and it’s making Nixon’s breath hitched already, and Jesus-fucking-Christ, he doesn’t know what they’re doing, anybody could hear them and they’re in fucking Nazi Germany and Dick still has his boots on and—

Nixon places his hand behind Dick’s neck and pulls him down to him and crushes his mouth against his. Dick moans into the kiss, and Nixon wants to draw out more of those sounds.  He starts mouthing down Dick’s neck, taking care to lick and suck at each area thoroughly before moving on to the next spot.

“Your beard tickles.”  Dick scrunches up his shoulders and wiggles, and Nixon smiles because imagine that — Major Richard Winters, ticklish.

While their hands and mouths on each other, they continue to rock their hips in frenzied motions, and eventually,  _thankfully,_  Nixon feels Dick’s hands at his waistband. There’s a moment where Dick pauses, as if he’s unsure what to do, but Nixon arches up to his touch, and Dick quickly unfastens Nixon’s belt and pants.  Nixon raises his hips when Dick pulls his pants and briefs together down to his thighs, eager to get Dick’s hands on him, and his cock curves up towards his stomach when freed from the confines of his pants.

Dick sits up, with one hand is braced on the bed and the other is poised in the air.  Nixon takes in short breaths — mostly from arousal but also from anticipation — and watches as Dick takes in the scene of Nixon exposed in front of him. Dick brushes his hand against Nixon’s stomach and around the curve of his hip and it’s driving Nixon  _mad_ , the teasing—

Dick must sense that he’s slowly unspooling Nixon. He’s doing it on purpose, Nixon knows, he can tell by the way Dick smirks at Nixon’s whispered pleads and desperate attempts to jerk his hips against his.  Nixon could report him for torturing him.  Malicious intent towards a fellow officer.

If Nixon doesn’t get touched soon he thinks he may die. He’s tired of waiting, so he goes to touch himself, but Dick catches his hand and pins it to the bed.

“Dick, c’mon, I—”

Nixon’s entire body spasms when Dick finally wraps his hand around his cock.  Nixon can’t help it, he thrusts into Dick’s hand and even though there’s the dry drag of his hand on him, he curses and throws his head back into the pillow.

“Patience,” Dick says, and fuck, Nixon would have never thought that Dick would have a brazen streak with intimacy, but it so  _so_  satisfying. Having Dick here like this, leaning over him with his hands on him and commanding him and taking control — he’s finally got Dick how he wants him, entirely, and with all of his focus.

Dick removes his hand and licks his palm before placing his hand back on Nixon, and he starts working him with firm strokes base to tip, the wet on his hand making it easy to pump him.  Uncontrolled noises tumble out of Nixon’s mouth, short gasps from the back of his throat, and Nixon’s hands fumble for placement at Dick’s sides as they move against each other.

Dick presses his mouth to his, whispers, “You have to be quiet, Lew.”

He knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Nixon cups Dick’s bulge through his pants, rubs him in the rhythm that Dick strokes him.  Nixon hopes to make Dick lose some of that steely composure of his and  _success,_ there’s a strangled moan and a full-body quiver that Dick can’t contain.  Nixon wants to hear more of that, so he fumbles with Dick’s pants but in the daze of sex and alcohol he can’t make sense of it, everything’s backwards, and Nixon makes a frustrated whine.  Thankfully, Dick gets the idea and with the hand that’s not on Nixon, he opens his pants and tugs them off his hips.

Without delay, Nixon takes Dick’s cock in his hand, and starts to stroke him.  The unfamiliar weight in his hands and angle makes the process awkward at first but soon Nixon accommodates, and figures out how to touch Dick in the ways he likes, the ways that make him choke out moans and his thighs twitch. Nixon runs his thumb over the slit, smearing precome down the length and Dick actually  _swears_  and thrusts hard into Nixon’s grip.

Nixon wants to tease Dick about it but he’s having a difficult time stringing his words together, and with them thrusting against each other, thrashing and driving into each other’s touch, there’s no way that Nixon will last much longer.  He’s close, his heart is thrumming in his ears and his motions become clumsy and his main concern is fucking the curve of Dick’s palm and he’s only vaguely aware of the drawn-out whines he’s making.

“ _Shh_.” Dick silences his noises with a biting kiss, and he gently pushes Nixon’s hand off of him.  Nixon is disappointed for a moment, but then Dick takes both of their cocks in his hand and starts stroking them together in quick, efficient jerks, and it’s overwhelmingly perfect.  Nixon’s hand settles around Dick’s wrist, and he can feel the twist of it every time Dick moves his hand up, and the feeling of their cocks rubbing together is too much, and he comes with a shout, spurting into Dick’s hand and on their shirts.

He lays blissed out as he comes down from his orgasm, too languid and satiatedto move. Dick continues to stroke both of them, now with erratic and quick strokes, and there are all kind of obscene slick sounds that are intermingling with the noises Dick makes. There’s no restraint with Dick now, he’s stuttering out half-formed words and phrases, and when Nixon is almost too sensitive to be touched, Dick comes, his release mixing with Nixon’s.

“Nix,” Dick says, and it’s so honest and genuine, that Nixon can’t help but reach up and hold Dick’s face between his hands and kiss him.

Nixon wishes that this moment could last forever. Dick is the brightest thing in his life, and hell, the war could go on forever if it meant that Nixon could keep him. He’ll go anywhere with him, he’ll take him wherever he wants to go — whether it’s Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles or anywhere else — as long as Nixon can follow him.

In truth, he knows that they hardly have any time at all.

 

 

 

“What do you think about New Jersey?” Nixon asks, and the intension is there for what he means.

He sounds more certain than he feels.

It seems like they’re going to get out of this war alive and Dick is second to none and Nixon can’t have anything less — it’s too late, he knows what it feels like to have Dick at his side as a comrade and friend and lover, and without him, his life would be amiss.

His mom used to ask him if someone jumped in a lake, would he do it too?  And he supposes he has to write her a letter because apparently he would, because he jumps in after Dick, fully clothed in his ODs, no less.

Dick’s laughing when Nixon trudges out of the lake, clothes dripping and okay — maybe it wasn’t the best idea in the world, but if he’s going to jump in a lake after anyone, it’ll be Dick. It’s not the first time that Nixon followed Dick to jump somewhere; planes, lakes — there’s a trend.

Nixon strips off his wet clothes and lays them on the dock to dry in the sun.  He joins Dick under the trees, he in his boxer shorts and Dick in his swimming trunks, and Dick calls him a  _fool_  but it’s said with a smile on his lips but Nixon plays mock hurt and shoves him playfully.

It’s a damn near idyllic scene.

Nixon supposes that Dick senses it too, because Dick’s grin transforms to a firm line and he says, “You keep saying that when the war’s over we’re going to go to all these places.  Chicago, Miami, L.A., Barcelona,” he says, and Nixon nods, remembering another promise made on the road out of Germany.

“But,” Dick continues, “will we? Will it be the same  _after_ , Nix?”

He voices a concern that Nixon hardly has had. He knows what the  _after_ that Dick speaks of means — will they be as important to each other after the war, when they aren’t so dependent on each other? Will it be different when there’s isn’t the wild intensity?  Will they fall apart when they have no reason to be together other than sheer affection, and not circumstances of location?  When it isn’t just convenient and a warm body to comfort?

(He cannot imagine anything different for how it should go.)

“It’ll be the same if we let it be,” Nixon says, and he glances to his side at Dick.  Dick looks contemplative. Leave it to him to overthink everything.

Nixon takes a deep breath.  “I know you want to sit under your own vine and fig tree and be not be afraid—”

“Are you quoting scripture at me?”

Nixon smirks.  “If it’s relevant,” he says, and he’s finally rewarded with a half-smile from Dick, a fleeting upturn of his mouth before it settles back into a frown. A thought passes though Nixon’s mind that maybe there’s a fear of commitment, a fear of the unknown that’s making Dick second guess.  Which is bizarre, because it’s usually Nixon who runs away from anything involving responsibility to something that could work out all wrong.

But with Dick — it’s never felt like a gamble. He’s his sure bet.

“It’ll be fine,” Nixon promises, and he leans into Dick, nudging his shoulder.  “You and I can make a go at it where ever.  Whether it be New Jersey or Pennsylvania or if you really are dead-set on going off to Japan, I’ll go there too.”

“Nix,” Dick says, tersely, with warning. As if he’s wanting to tell Nixon to stop being ridiculous, that he doesn’t know what he’s saying, that he’s delirious.

Nixon is a master at convincing. He leans in and braces himself with a hand on Dick’s knee, steals a kiss, says, “Trust me.”

Dick’s eyes flutter shut, his light auburn lashes like a dusting against his skin — Nixon knows this because he keeps his eyes open — and there’s a tiny content sound that emanates from the back of his throat, and just like that Nixon knows that he has him, hook line and sinker. “I’ll always trust you,” Dick says, and he relents, letting Nixon tip him back onto the ground until he’s laying flat on his back and Nixon stretches out over him.

Here beside a lake in Zell am See, there’s no worry that anyone will catch them.  They can enjoy each other leisurely, and not have to rush behind locked doors and contend with borrowed time.

Nixon leans over Dick’s body, kissing a trail down his neck, to his chest and stopping at his stomach, where his teeth graze over sensitive skin of his stomach.  He feels Dick twitch under him, ticklish from the feel of Nixon’s day-old beard against him, and it only makes Nixon nuzzle against him more. 

“Tease,” Dick mutters.

Nixon lifts his head to stare with heavy eyes at Dick down the line of his body.  Water drips from his hair into Dick’s navel.  Dick shudders — possibly from the breeze cooling the water on his skin, or the want of more.

Dick is half hard when Nixon pulls him out of his swim trunks.  Nixon gives him a few slow strokes before tugging his trunks down his pale legs and then tossing them aside, and then dips back down between his thighs. He starts licking him to full hardness, first flattening his tongue against the slit and then sucking at the head. When he feels Dick’s cock firm and heavy against his lips and tastes precome on his tongue, he takes Dick fully in his mouth, causing Dick to groan out his name and clutch at his shoulders.

There are leaves sticking to his skin and twigs digging into his knees and his own cock wants attention, but Nixon doesn’t mind, he’s too engrossed with pleasing Dick to care about anything else.  Dick’s muttered praise urges him further, Nixon alternating between running his tongue along the underside of his cock and bobbing his head up and down, and it’s getting so messy that spit is collecting at the corners of his mouth and running down his chin.

Dick is close, Nixon knows by the way Dick’s legs shake beneath him and the way Dick gets freer with his words, a, “ _Yes, Nix, damn,_ ” and the way he’s gripping his shoulders so hard that they’ll be imprints of bruises left behind. It feels like he’s trying to hold back from thrusting up into Nixon’s mouth, but Nixon won’t have that — he circles his hands around Dick’s hips, his fingers brushing against the curve of his ass, and pulls forward, encouraging him.  Dick stutters out a moan, and jerks his hips forward, and Nixon takes it, relaxing his throat and letting Dick slide in as far as he can. Nixon’s jaw starts to ache but he moves a hand from Dick’s hip to around the base of Dick’s cock, gripping the part that’s not in his mouth, and he presses his tongue against hot skin and hollows his cheeks and a few seconds later, he feels warm release spilling into his mouth and down his throat.

Nixon swallows what he can, but some spills out and mixes with the spit on his chin.  He pulls off of Dick, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks up to Dick, who is coming down from his high.

Nixon is about to say something but his voice is hoarse.  Dick takes the opportunity to catch him unaware and hook his leg over his and flip him over.

For a moment, Nixon almost forgets where he is, when Dick slides down his body, licking a path as he goes. But then Dick fists his hand in Nixon’s underwear and pulls out his achingly hard cock and it feels so good just to be  _touched_ , and Dick takes him unceremoniously in his mouth, meeting Nixon’s eyes as he does it, and then Nixon can’t think straight about too much of think of anything.

 

 

 

It doesn’t startle Nixon when he wakes at the noise of the door of his Austrian quarters being opened.  It’s expected, now.

Nixon feels the mattress dip, and there’s the familiar weight of Dick crawling into the bed beside him. Dick shifts to get comfortable under the covers, and then curls his front against Nixon’s back and throws an arm around Nixon’s middle.

“I’ll get you a dog,” Dick mumbles, and Nixon almost want to turn over so Dick can see how that promise is making him smile because Dick knows him so perfectly, and Nixon can say it — that he loves him with the same intensity that he does.

Nixon realizes that he didn’t so much make a spot for Dick than Dick worked his way into Nixon’s life. 

As it should be.

 

 

 

(One place that they do not go is Japan — the war ends before they can follow each other there.

But they do go everywhere else promised, and more.)


End file.
